Homefront
by hell-whim
Summary: Miss Riza's arrival in Resembool has the potential to ruin everything. [Royai, FMA:B AU]
1. One

**Title:** Homefront  
**Summary:** Miss Riza's arrival in Resembool has the potential to ruin everything. [Royai, FMA:B AU]  
**Notes:** I've fudged the time-line and the layout of the Elric house. Ed and Al finish their training with Izumi in June of 1908, and Riza arrives in August of 1908.

* * *

**One**

The trap is visible for a mile along the road, bobbing up and down the hills, and there's only one destination possible. Ed sets Al a few simple tasks but takes the bulk of defense for himself.

"Remember what teacher taught us," Ed says, as Al nods, wide-eyed in awe. "Target your attack. We've got enough raw material here to outlast them at least a month."

"A whole month?" Al repeats. "Brother, do you think they'll attack that long?"

"Who knows what they want," Ed glowers darkly—he's fairly certain Granny has something to do with this, and that little toad's going to _pay_.

They don't have time for a proper wall, but Ed sketches a few fast circles around the front door and then locks it for good measure, positioning himself at an upstairs window. He tries to get Al to take the other, but Al's always too scared to stay alone.

The trap turns into the beaten-earth yard and stops, and sure enough—Granny Rockbell ties the reins to a post and steps around the back to help someone unseen disembark.

"Elrics!" Granny shouts. "Get down here! I have someone for you to meet!"

"Like hell!" Ed shouts back.

"Don't you swear at me, you little runt!"

"Come in and stop me!"

He pulls back the slingshot and aims, striking the ground at Granny's feet with an acorn. While she hops back, swearing herself, the stranger comes around the side of the trap, holding a thin suitcase in one hand and shielding her eyes with the other.

A woman: blonde hair partially hidden beneath a man's cap, tall and thin, in a dark green skirt and grey sweater, boots dusty from travel. Winry follows close, frowning.

"This is the Elric place?" the woman asks Granny.

"Yeah," Granny spits. "At least you're getting the treatment upfront. Hate to see you fooled into thinking they're little angels and then run off when they get wild."

"Brother," Al whispers. "I don't know. She looks nice."

"That's just looks," Ed replies, taking aim again. "I bet she's after the house."

The woman's gaze flickers across his window, and she raises her suitcase at the last second, deflecting his acorn easily.

"You're such a meanie, Ed!" Winry says.

"You knock that off now and get down here," Granny demands. "This is Miss Riza. She's come to take care of you boys."

"Yeah? Well, we don't need her!" Ed yells. "Al, go get some more ammo."

"Edward Elric, you open this door right now or I'll—"

"What? Stop feeding us?"

The woman leans in and whispers something in Granny's ear, and then in a flash gathers up the downed acorn and throws it—hitting the window sill a hair away from Ed's widened eyes. Al gasps, and then scrambles down the stairs to open the door, blubbering out an apology.

Miss Riza, it turns out, is _not_ after the house. She sets her suitcase inside the door and hangs up her hat, and then follows Granny to the kitchen and sits across from Ed, returning his furious glare with a cool gaze. Winry stands at her elbow, frowning.

"I'm really sorry, Miss Riza," Al says again, and she replies in a pleasantly warm voice.

"I understand. You were scared. You just wanted to defend your house."

Granny sets out tea cups and pours.

"Chamomile," she says to Miss Riza before climbing into the chair on her left and pulling the cloth cover from a basket of bread. "Edward, Alphonse: this is Riza Hawkeye. She's come a long way to take care of you two."

"Your father hired me," Miss Riza says.

"So what?" Ed mutters, viciously tearing a roll to pieces. Miss Riza takes a sip of her tea.

"I'll be here to cook and clean, and look after you boys when you're not in school."

"We can look after _ourselves_."

Miss Riza stares Ed down with a half-smile, glancing around the disarrayed kitchen—dishes dirty, curtains askew, pantry half-closed and old food spilling onto the floor.

"Well then, I guess it'll be an easy job for me."

Granny makes stew for later—a week's worth at least, but Ed frowns at the simmering pot, determined to hate everything—and then she takes Miss Riza on a tour of the house with Al and Winry following, hand in hand.

"Kitchen, living room, library, water closet—there's a small room in the back they turned to storage, but you might like it for yourself. Easier than taking the stairs, in the latter months."

"Thank you, I'll consider it."

"Boys have their room upstairs, and a proper tub room. Master bedroom, some more storage, and the attic. You'll find some use up there—Trisha kept everything."

Miss Riza's expression remains unchanged. She studies the walls and floors with that same cool gaze, as though surveying the house for prey, stepping lightly in her high-buttoned boots.

"And the yard?" she says, moving to the kitchen door.

"Far as the fence, any side. You're a bit from town, but Winry can drive the trap, and we're never more than a phone call away."

"I can walk for a while yet," Miss Riza murmurs, staring out into the yard. Her back is turned to them, but she raises both hands to her belly. "Thank you, Mrs. Rockbell."

"Call me Pinako," Granny says, unlit pipe balanced between her teeth. "I'll send Winry tomorrow with a note for the bank. Conductor said you didn't have any bags?"

"Just the one," Miss Riza says, glancing back to the front hall. "I brought everything I needed."

"You'll need more," Granny replies. "C'mon, Winry. We're off home."

Miss Riza goes out front to see the trap off, but Ed stays hunched at the kitchen table, kneading the broken bread back into dough. Al hovers anxiously in the doorway.

"Brother," he says quietly. "Shouldn't we give her a chance at least?"

"Don't you get it?" Ed snaps. "She'll mess up all our plans. She's in with Hohenheim."

They hear Miss Riza close the front door at last, and the quiet creak of the floorboards beneath her feet. Al edges into the kitchen and sits on a little stool near the icebox.

"Now what?" he whispers glumly.

"Now we clean," Miss Riza says from the doorway. "I'm going to start in here. Maybe you boys could wash off those transmutation circles you drew by the door."

Al hops from the stool, but Ed stays put, glaring in silence at Miss Riza. Torn, Al just sort of stands there with a silent, pleading look towards Ed.

Miss Riza, oblivious to the minor battle, opens the door and the windows, inviting the breeze and the waning sunlight inside, and starts at the sink. The water runs rust-red at first, but then with a whine, it heats up and turns clear. She finds the soap on her second try—the cabinet above, with the little spoon stuck end-in—and scrapes a few flakes into the water, watching them swirl into a lather of bright white bubbles.

She works slowly: the pots and pans, the plates and then bowls, the cups still crusted with milk, and finally forks and knives. As she works, Al inches across the floor, casting nervous glances to Ed and his focused demolishing of the bread. Without a look back, Miss Riza sets a towel over the counter's edge.

"They'll need to be dried, and then put in their proper place."

Al's always been too eager to please—he takes up the towel while Miss Riza moves onto the counter-tops.

Just after sunset, Al sets the table around Ed's glare, at Miss Riza's suggestion, and she ladles generous portions of stew onto their plates. She pours milk for all of them and then sits, again across from Ed.

"Are you from around here, Miss Riza?" Al asks between bites, while Ed separates the potato cubes from the chunks of meat on his plate.

"No," she replies—she waits to finish chewing first and carefully dabs a napkin at her mouth.

"Then how come you're here?"

"I needed a job."

"Oh. How come?"

"My father died a few years ago," Miss Riza says. "I couldn't stay in his house."

"I'm sorry," Al says quietly. "Our mom died—in aught-four."

"Yes, your father told me."

Ed glances up quick—Miss Riza's gaze has drifted to the open window, and Al has set down his fork, head bowed.

"We haven't seen him since we were real little," Al whispers. "He just left one morning. He never said why."

"He didn't care enough to come back when Mom died," Ed interrupts. "Probably just doesn't trust us with the house."

"Sometimes men have to leave their families," Miss Riza says. "They can't always explain why, but sometimes they have good reasons."

A chill rises—the breeze outside, turned cool without the sun to speed it. Miss Riza stands and closes the windows and door. Al helps her clear away, and then sits on the little stool to finish his milk while she sweeps, humming.

When they disappear into the living room together, Ed finally takes a bite from his own plate. Even stone-cold, Granny's stew is the best. He listens, chewing, as they shuffle something around, and then the wireless turns on with a pop and hiss—they must've unburied it from all the books. He can't make out the words, but the drone of a deep, soothing voice lulls him as shadows gather.

Ed leaves his dirty plate and the glass of milk untouched on the table, and then sneaks to the stairs. He makes it halfway up and stops, crouching to peer between the rails. He can see Al stretched prone on the hearthrug, fists beneath his chin as he reads a book, and Miss Riza sitting in an armchair beside the wireless, eyes closed, head tilted a little towards the speaker. She has her small hands gathered in her lap, right thumb running over her left. Her boots stand beside the wireless, heels aligned perfectly with the rug's edge.

It's still too warm yet for the fire, but the big oil lamp hanging in front of the window is lit, glowing orange and red from the scraps of flannel floating at the bottom. The disarray of cushions and dirty clothes, books and papers and biscuits hard as rock and left for the mice, looks too inviting. Ed hunches up, wrapping his arms around his middle and fighting to keep the frown.

"New movement on the Ishvalan front," says the wireless announcer. "Rebel forces have been pushed back south by fresh troops from Central. Those State Alchemists sure are turning the tide. Go get 'em, boys!"


	2. Two

**Two**

Miss Riza never asks them to do anything. She suggests—she leaves rags and soaps out, sets the broom by the back door, tacks a new rope from the tree to the house corner—each time a harmless request, like she's expressing a desire for a little more sunlight or a lighter breeze. _Maybe you boys could_, and if they don't—if _Ed_ doesn't, because Al's too wrapped around her little finger not to go along, that rotten traitor—she says nothing. She does it herself, eventually, without so much as a reproachful look.

Within a week she has finished cleaning and fixing up the kitchen and living room, and the back room is half-empty—enough for Al to take some wood and nails and transmute her a bedframe, and then help her stuff an empty mattress with straw. She sends them into town for groceries on the weekends, pinning the list and some money inside Al's pocket. Ed always follows, because someone has to keep an eye on Al, but he doesn't enjoy it—kicking gravel the whole way there and back.

Everything they know about her is learned by Al and shared with Winry on the way home from school. Miss Riza is just nineteen, she's from the west, her mother is dead as well and no siblings—she doles out details like a rare treat and sometimes won't answer questions at all, going quiet as she peels potatoes or twists a rag dry.

_That's not important_ is her refrain: the line she uses to shoo them out to the yard or back to the library. Everything else they have to learn by observation.

"Well, she's right-handed, and she's got okay aim," Ed says.

"You almost lost an eye to that acorn," Winry points out.

"That was a lucky shot! One in a million!"

"She's so pretty," Winry sighs, ignoring him. "I wonder if she has a beau."

"What's a beau?"

"You know, like a boyfriend. But people in Central say _beau_. Sounds more official."

"Sounds _stupid_."

"Well, what would you know?" Winry snaps. "_You_'ve never been to Central."

"You've only been _once_!"

"Once is still more than none!"

They split off from Winry at the bridge and carry on down the long road alone. Al waves and shouts good-bye for them both, and then runs to catch up with Ed.

"I don't care what you say," Al says. "I like Miss Riza. She has a nice voice, and her food's good."

"Not as good as Granny's," Ed replies sharply, struggling with the bag as it slips on his shoulder.

They're quiet with the door on entering—Miss Riza's dozing in the armchair again, teacup perched on the edge of the wireless. In her lap, between half-curled hands, rests a thick envelope, wax-sealed and address scrawled in a slant: _Mjr Roy Mustang, c/o Company A, 3d Regiment, 702d Infantry, Amestris Eastern Strategic Command_.

"Do you think that's her beau?" Al whispers, as they tiptoe into the library—the only room Miss Riza has left untouched.

"Who cares?" Ed replies, a little louder than necessary. But he adds this new scrap of information to his growing mental case-file of Miss Riza's mysteries.

He's almost disappointed to have the answer to this one—since she arrived, Miss Riza has spent her evenings after dinner listening to the wireless and writing out long letters, carefully folding each into a sturdy envelope and sealing the flap with wax. They hadn't before been able to read the address, as she always took the envelope straight to the mailbox and raised the little red flag for the mailman to catch. Ed thought she might be reporting to Hohenheim—they'd asked, but she claimed he left no way of contact. They had apparently agreed beforehand that her pay was to be room and board.

But this lapse is one of many that have been piling up: mornings spent sick in the water closet, falling asleep whenever she sits for more than ten minutes, leaving lamps to burn in an empty room. Just last week, she misplaced a ration book and tore the house up to find it—folded between stacks of books left on the hearthrug—and then sat on Al's little stool by the icebox and cried for ten minutes into a dish-towel.

Ed blinks, knocking his thoughts loose—Al is busy arranging their books by subject.

"What should we start with today, brother?"

"Anatomy," Ed says. "I think we're still on the endocrine system."

At half-past five, they hear Miss Riza rise and shuffle into the kitchen to make supper.

"We should help her," Al says quietly.

"Go if you want," Ed sighs.

But Al stays with his book until she knocks.

"There's casserole," Miss Riza calls through the door, and her voice still sounds thick with sleep. "Will you come sit at the table?"

"No," Ed calls back. "We're not hungry!"

Five minutes later, there's another knock. Al opens the door to two plates, covered with clean white squares of cloth, and two chilled glasses of milk. Al passes a plate over, grinning, and Ed picks at it. He can admit, if only to himself—it's pretty good.

Al quits around eight. He's full and sleepy, but marks his place with care.

"Good night, brother," he says, and Ed merely grunts in response, busy trying to puzzle out the pituitary gland.

The oil runs out at midnight, and the jug's all the way out in the shed, so Ed closes up his notes and hops down from the chair, stretching his arms over his head. For once, he takes the dirty plates and glasses—he doesn't want to give Miss Riza any excuse to wander into the library and mess anything up. She's been respectful of that privacy so far.

The rest of the house is dark—new moon's approaching, and all of the lamps have been extinguished or run out. End of the month: tomorrow Miss Riza will go around with the oil jug, carefully refilling each lamp with a chipped old teacup. Only the outside lights are electric.

Ed steps carefully around the floorboards he knows will creak, inching along with the plates balanced precariously. He concedes as far as the table—he's still too short to see over the high rim of the sink. He wonders, briefly, if Miss Riza even ate, and then dismisses the thought. The door to the back room is shut tight.

Back in the hallway, he yawns his way to the staircase, about to stumble up when he sees her.

Still awake, with one hand resting on her belly and the other tracing the edges of a blank piece of paper, Miss Riza has something of a glazed look—gaze on the silent wireless but clearly not seeing it. She looks older in this half-light, eyes set deep in her tired face. Her hair's longer than when she arrived, tucked up beneath an old kerchief. She's still wearing the same clothes, for the most part—she only has two skirts and the sweater and a few starched men's shirts. The high-buttoned boots she arrived in sit beside the back door, but she mostly goes barefoot around the house and in the yard.

"You're up late," she says softly, head half-turned. "Is there something you need?"

"No," Ed says, matching her tone. He thinks, halfway up the stairs, that he should've said it more mean or stomped up to his room, but she looked too tired to make the effort worth it.

Al is awake regardless, blankets pulled up to his chin, eyes widening at the open door.

"It's just me," Ed sighs, climbing up beside Al—his own bed sits empty across the room, like always. Al pulls Ed's blanket up from behind and inches close, whispering across the pillow.

"Do you think, if we get Mom back—"

"When," Ed cuts in. "_When_ we get Mom back."

"Right. _When_," Al amends. "Do you think she'd let Miss Riza stay?"

Ed takes a while adjusting the blanket and settling into the mattress—giving himself time to think.

"When we get Mom back," he says, and suddenly his throat is tight and his face hot, and Al's hand slips into his.

"Brother?"

"We might not need her," Ed forces out. "When Mom gets back, she'll probably want to do all the things she used to. There won't be anything left for Miss Riza. Maybe she'll go home."

"But you've heard her," Al replies, shaking his head. "She doesn't have a home anymore, remember?"

In the silence after this answer-less question, Ed almost thinks he can hear the scrape of a bare foot on the bottom step. He holds his breath, just in case, but there's nothing more.

Just the wind, and the house as it settles around them.


	3. Three

**Three**

A few weeks before winter, Ed wakes up sick—chills and fever, coughing out his lungs and unable to keep more than water and thin broth in his stomach. Miss Riza quarantines him to the living room, packing him onto the couch beneath a mountain of blankets, where he can just see Al through the front window, trudging off to school alone.

"Sleep," Miss Riza says, the first real order she's ever given him, and Ed squints up a glare, determined now to spend the day awake.

He watches through narrowed eyes as she moves about—Al left his books scattered on the hearthrug again, and Ed thinks he can see Miss Riza frown as she glances over the titles, but then she's tucked them under one arm and twists the other to open the flue.

"Need a chimney sweep," she mutters, as she piles in a few logs and twigs and bits of newspaper wadded beneath, and a tiny cheating bit of lamp oil which catches instantly. She leaves the fire to stoke itself, switching on the wireless and padding out beyond Ed's line-of-sight. Still bare foot, she returns with an empty bowl and a cup of broth.

Her hand beneath his head is gentle and warm.

"Drink slow," she says. "Be nice to both of us—aim for the bowl when you're sick."

He wants to keep the glare up, but it's hard to concentrate on swallowing at the same time. She takes a second to fix the blankets up to his chin.

"Do you mind the wireless?"

"No," he says and tries to sound sullen about it.

They save the news for evening—this early, there's a program of ballroom music, framed by echoing applause as the band leader calls out each new song. Miss Riza hums along to the melodies and sings when there's words—softly, as though only for herself. Her footsteps match the percussion, by design or accident, as she whirls through the living room and then out to the hall.

Ed slips into sleep without meaning to—all that energy spent trying to stay awake dooms him. He dreams about Mom.

It always starts in the kitchen: one chair pulled up to the counter which both of them try to balance on, watching wide-eyed as Mom kneads dough for bread.

"We'll make plenty, okay?" Mom says. "Enough until your dad comes home."

The muscles in her arm flex and contract—the extensor digitorum, the flexor carpi ulnaris, the brachioradialis—working together in imperfect rhythm. The rough skin drawn over the distal knob of her ulna holds soft blue shadows and a bright ivory point of pressure. The veins running through her left hand are different than those in her right—deeper, further from the surface, tinged green at the edges as though always recovering from a bruise. The light hair dusting her arms tapers off at her wrists. Each fingernail holds an unsteady half-moon of white against a fading purple canvas, and on her right thumb, the creases of her knuckle conceal a few grains of flour.

"Hold still," Ed says. "I have to remember this."

It's Al's job to get the oven—he disappears from Ed's side and is suddenly reaching for the handle, his hand enveloped in the hazy distortion of hot air that slips up from the cracked door.

"Brother, don't," Ed says, but it's Al's voice he hears, Al's hands that release their grip on the back of the chair, Al's knee that gets scraped when he climbs down too fast. Al's tears on his face, as Mom is bending over the oven.

"Mom, _wait_," he sobs. "We're not ready yet."

She half-turns to him, with only half of a smile, as the pan and her arms disappear into the blackness of the oven's insides.

"The world isn't waiting on you, Edward," she says lightly.

Three knocks sound in the hall—Ed glances behind and then back. Mom is standing at the sink now, elbow-deep in soap suds.

"Just a little longer," Ed pleads, in his own body now—dragging it across the floor with one arm. Al's nowhere in sight. "We're so close. We'll get you back."

He reaches up—there's something wrong with his right arm, something that sits in the back of his throat and threatens to choke him—and his fingers are pulling at the hem of her skirt. Her bare feet stick out small against the rough-woven carpet.

"I don't know why you'd put yourself to the trouble," she says, but it's not Mom—he looks up into Miss Riza's eyes.

It's hard to jolt awake beneath the mountain of blankets, but his eyes fly open and Ed manages to claw an opening to breathe. The air is bitingly cold and breezy: he can see faint shadows in the hallway past the end of the couch—Miss Riza standing on one foot with the front door open.

"It's no real trouble, Miss," says a voice Ed recognizes as Mr. Sutter, the mailman. "Walking gets the blood flowing—keeps me warm when the seasons change."

"I wonder if it's the mountains," Miss Riza says pleasantly. "The west isn't anything like this."

There's a shuffle of quiet noise—letters being handed over, and then a sharp gasp.

"Now, listen, please," Mr. Sutter says, and in the shift of shadows Ed can see him reach for Miss Riza. "Don't—don't take it that way. Those boys are always on the move, and it's hard to nail down the system. If something _had_ happened—they don't make you wait on that."

"Yes," Miss Riza says, very faint. Her shadow seems to shrink into itself.

"Mrs. Sutter and I, we're down by the station, but our door's always open. We used to have Trisha over—she'd bring the boys when they were small. I'll send Mrs. up with some food—give you a little less to do."

"Yes," Miss Riza says again. "Yes, thank you. Good afternoon, sir."

Ed hears the crunch of gravel and sits up in time to see the top of Mr. Sutter's grey cap sinking beneath the crest of the hill. Miss Riza takes a while to close the door and then just stands there, head bowed. She holds a thick packet of letters, at least twenty tied with rough brown string, level as a plate before her belly.

Her profile is perfectly still, her gaze blank and aimed somewhere towards the floor. Her usual grey sweater slips from her left shoulder, exposing the sharp curve of her neck.

"Are you feeling better?" she asks softly. "If you're hungry, I'll make something."

He says nothing—the wireless is off again, buzzing silence between programs. Miss Riza takes a step, and then another, and the scrape of her bare feet on the floorboards disappears into the kitchen.

"Good afternoon, Amestris!" the wireless wheezes suddenly. "This is Radio Central, and we're so happy to spend this beautiful day with all of our faithful listeners."

More music—not ballroom this time, but something bright and staccato, rippling with ups and downs. Half of the words sound like nonsense to Ed, who pushes and twists to the reach the edge of the couch. He's warm but the pain in his stomach is hunger now, so he slides to the floor feeling tired and light-headed. Miss Riza isn't singing along—he thinks maybe she doesn't know the words.

The kitchen is empty at his brief glance—back door cracked open. He tip-toes down the hall, just in case.

Miss Riza doesn't seem surprised to find him in the library a few minutes later—she breaches the solitude just long enough to bring him a sandwich and some water and drape a blanket over his shoulders. He's busy tracing a diagram of the metacarpals and mutters something like _thanks_.

Al comes home smelling like autumn smoke and floats into the room whistling.

"_You _have homework," he says, sing-song.

"I've always got homework," Ed sighs, just as a knock sounds against the closed door.

Miss Riza doesn't give them an option for dinner.

"Come to the table," she says flatly. Ed wraps the blanket over his shoulders and follows Al out.

The whole house is dark except for the kitchen lantern—the wireless squawks some comedy show to an empty room, and Miss Riza stands with her back to them, bent over the sink. Two plates and two glasses are waiting, and Ed and Al climb dutifully into their seats.

"Aren't you going to eat, Miss Riza?" Al asks.

"I'm not hungry," she replies, not bothering to turn. "Go ahead, boys."

The stack of letters—still bound tight—are sitting at Miss Riza's usual place, edge aligned with edge. Squinting, Ed can just make out the first line of the address.

"What're those?" Al asks, and Miss Riza pauses in scrubbing.

"That's not important," she says softly.

Al takes a few bites, chewing and thinking—Ed can see the gears working behind his scrunched brow. Miss Riza rinses out each teacup one at a time, and then sets them on a thin towel beside the sink. A crowd laughs over the wireless—bubbly sharp and abruptly cut off again.

"Aren't those the letters you wrote?"

She flinches, and a cup slips from her wet fingers—smashing into fine dusty pieces on the stone floor beneath the oven.

"Yes," Miss Riza says, voice choked and tight. "I wrote them."

"They got sent back?"

"Yes."

"How come?"

"Al," Ed says quietly. "_Don't_."

Miss Riza, dish towel in hand, lowers herself on all fours with visible difficulty, facing away from them, gingering picking up the largest pieces of jagged porcelain. Her shoulders and hands are shaking, and she breathes in hiccuping gasps, hair hanging down over her face. The soles of her bare feet are ivory over the arches, dusty blue at the heels and toes.

He can see tears welling up in Al's eyes—horrified to have caused such pain—and Ed sets down his fork and slides from his chair, trailing the blanket behind.

"Here," he says softly, draping the end over Miss Riza's shoulders. She looks up at him through eyes wide and red-rimmed.

His arms just fit around her shoulders. She sits up, probably in surprise, but she returns the hug after a moment, blanket tangled between them.

"I'm sorry, Miss Riza," Ed says.

She feels too cold and fragile, and she holds him tight, face pressed against his shoulder as she sobs.


	4. Four

**Four**

Suddenly, it is Miss Riza's turn to be sick. There is one morning, shortly after the letters' return, that she simply doesn't get out of bed. Ed knocks on her closed door, but she doesn't answer—he makes toast for breakfast and cold sandwiches to take for lunch.

"Miss Riza?" he calls. "We're going to school!"

Nothing. He leans his ear against the door and then shrugs at Al. They bundle up—Ed checks that Al remembers his scarf—and lock the front door.

There's a lot to catch Winry up on, so they take their time on the walk.

"Poor Miss Riza," Winry sighs. "Do you think something happened to her beau?"

"I wonder what he's like," Al says. "A major. Is that high up? Maybe he's busy, in charge of a lot of people."

"It's not that he's not _answering_," Ed replies. "Mr. Sutter made it sound like the letters aren't even getting through at all."

All during school, Ed finds it harder to concentrate than usual, mind and eyes focused out the window. They're supposed to go over to Winry's tonight, but Ed feels uneasy. He thinks maybe it's the idea of losing a night of research, but on the way home, he hangs back, shuffling the frosted leaves with his boots while Al and Winry skip ahead, laughing.

The house is dark when they get there—sunset's just an hour away, but no lamps lit, no smoke from the chimney. Winry finds a note tacked to the bottom of the front door.

"She says to take the trap. She's at _your_ house."

They get the horse out and walk him around a bit—Winry wants to show off this new trust, but Ed's too busy thinking about their own dark house and Miss Riza and what might be happening that he doesn't know.

Al picks up on his mood fast, and the ride is quiet.

"I'm sure everything is okay," Winry offers, but there's a big shiny car parked beside their house and laundry frozen to the line. Ed stumbles down before the horse has stopped, smashing his knee into the gravel, hearing Al scramble down a little behind.

They run together and reach the front door just as it opens on Granny and a severe-looking older man, hat and black leather bag in one hand while the other sticks out for Granny to shake.

"In her condition, there's nothing I can prescribe but rest. I don't know what kind of people you are out here—but there's the damn pensioner's fund for a reason."

"Thank you, doctor," Granny says, taking his hand. There's a glint of lamplight across her glasses. "Sorry to have troubled you for nothing, then."

The doctor breaks her grip and shakes out his fingers with a sour look, jamming the hat on his head and stomping to his car.

"Put your bags down, and go get the wash," Granny says to Ed and Al. "Then help Winry put the horse in the shed. There'll be supper when you get in, and I'll look at that knee."

They limp inside and throw their bags towards the staircase. A fast glance into the living room is all Ed can manage before Granny shoves the hamper in their arms and shuffles them back outside. Miss Riza is sleeping in the armchair, swaddled tight in blankets and feet propped up on a low table. Ed can feel the fire's heat prickling his chapped hands even from this distance.

"Go on, get it done, and then you can come back in," Granny says, giving him a gentle shove.

They almost pull the line down with the clothes, jumping to snatch down shirts and trousers stiff as metal sheeting. It takes both of them to lug the full hamper around to the back door where they can see Winry struggling to throw a blanket over the horse's back. The wind brings tears to Ed's eyes and sends them streaming down his face as he works the water pump. They fill a bucket and find a feedbag and then shut the horse inside, with the trap tucked around the side of the shed to shield it from the wind.

The hot air inside the kitchen stings when they finally stumble inside, piling up at the door to wedge stiff boots off their feet and drape frozen scarves over the waiting hooks. The bottom of the oven glows cherry-red, and they rush as one towards it, hands held out.

Granny wanders into the kitchen with an unlit pipe clamped between her teeth.

"Roast," she says. "Move, and I'll get you some."

"Is Miss Riza okay?"

"She's fine," Granny snorts, shooing them into their chairs. "Stubborn, but she'll live through that. Baby's another story."

"What baby?" Al asks, and Granny laughs at their looks, portioning out three generous plates.

"She's _expecting_. Or did you idiots think she was just getting fat off our mountain cooking?"

Winry gasps.

"_Really_?" she squeals. "Miss Riza's gonna have a little baby?"

"Sooner than later," Granny replies, hopping into Miss Riza's chair at the head of the table. "We're going to stay here tonight, Winry. Den will have to do without us."

So research time is lost to him either way—Winry always asks too many questions, and Al will want to play. Ed mashes the vegetables together, frowning.

"Don't worry about Miss Riza," Granny says. "She'll be back up in a few days. But—"

She taps her empty pipe on the table's edge, out of habit.

"You boys will have to start doing more to help around here. The bigger that baby gets—the harder it'll be for Miss Riza to move around. And the cold's no help to her. You boys are old enough now to manage your own mess."

"Yes, Granny," Ed and Al say together, dully. When they finish eating, Granny supervises them in cleaning and drying and putting away the dishes. Winry helps, as they sweep the floor and hang the dripping wash to dry over the sink. There's no school tomorrow, so they only have to scrub their hands and faces at the sink before Granny lets them file into the living room.

"Hush, now, and let her sleep," Granny says.

"I'm awake," Miss Riza replies, and her eyes are slow to open. "I'm alright. Just a touch of what Ed had."

"Sorry," Ed says quietly, feeling obligated. "I didn't mean to make you sick."

"It's not your fault, Ed," Miss Riza smiles, as Granny settles on the couch. "These things just happen."

"Get over here," Granny says. "Let me see that knee."

Ed climbs up beside her while Al and Winry close around Miss Riza.

"Is there really a baby in there?" Al asks, peering at Miss Riza's middle—covered now by her crossed hands and a few layers of blankets.

"Yes," Miss Riza laughs gently. "I thought you boys had figured it out already. The way you study those anatomy books—"

"Dammit, Ed, hold still!" Granny scolds.

"You're making it worse," Ed mutters, falling back against the couch arm. His heart is hammering in his throat, and he can't think why—something about the way Miss Riza said _books_, maybe, but there's no way she knows. Not even a chance she could guess.

"Could we listen to the wireless?" Al asks, brightly oblivious.

"Yes, that would be nice."

They catch the end of a play: pirates and navies and hurricanes. The speakers try to make the sound of lightning and high waves, but it all sounds like static to Ed.

"What's the ocean like?" Al asks.

"Big," Granny says.

"Eight fifty-five central time. Good evening, Amestris," the wireless cuts in. "This is Vet Kaube of Radio Central, bringing you the latest news from across the country! Sponsored by Central City's own Schlitz Razors. Never trust your face to anything less than the absolute best!"

"That's you done, then," Granny sighs, tying off the bandage. "I think it's time for bed."

"Aw, but—"

"I think you'd better listen," Miss Riza says with a soft smile. "Good night, boys. Good night, Winry."

"Good night, Granny," they groan as one. "Good night, Miss Riza."

At the top of the steps, Winry grabs Ed's hand and puts a finger to her lips. Then she points down the stairs, and they crouch together. Al makes a few protesting whimpers—never one for breaking rules, but still he settles beside them.

All Ed can hear at first is Winry's breathing and the static whine of the wireless, but then he closes his eyes and concentrates, and he can just hear Granny between the announcer's drone.

"I wish you'd mentioned earlier," Granny is saying quietly, and there is a click of knitting needles to punctuate her words.

"I'm sorry. I didn't want to cause fuss."

"No fuss. I don't know how you westerners live, but out here, we take care of each other."

"Even in scandal?" Miss Riza asks, and there is a sharpness to her tone.

"I'm sorry I called him out here," Granny says. "Can't imagine why the army didn't take him instead. Maybe they've got a dearth of cowardly old men clogging the hospitals in East City. Urey and Sara—they never cared about the story. They'd help the person."

"We wanted to be married," Miss Riza says, and the announcer almost drowns her out. "There just wasn't the time. Or the money. He was called up so suddenly—barely had his certification for a year."

"Eyes of the law are least important," Granny replies. "If you're married in your hearts, then you're married."

"I don't think the Veterans' Council will take that as evidence for the widow's fund."

"Oh, hush that. Unless that letter's in your hand, he's _alive_. Just out-of-touch."

Ed is aware, suddenly, of the pressure of Winry's hand against his. He looks over—she closed her eyes, too, and leans a little forward, frowning with concentration.

"Pensioner's not a bad plan," Granny continues carefully. "Could make a day of going down."

"Take the kids?"

"Give them something to do," Granny harrumphs, needles clicking. "Something besides eavesdropping _when they should be in bed_."

Winry gasps, dropping Ed's hand, and then they're all scrambling for the bedroom, throwing themselves under the blankets and waiting for the sound of Granny on the stairs.

But she doesn't come. The threat, apparently, was more than enough.


	5. Five

**Five**

The night before they're set to leave, Granny fills the tub near-scalding and scrubs them each red and raw. One by one they are called in and cleaned thoroughly, and then left to stand wincing in the hall while Miss Riza drapes towels around their shivering shoulders. She has cocoa waiting downstairs, and they are allowed to drink it in front of the fireplace while Miss Riza combs their hair flat.

"Straight to bed," she says firmly. "We have to be up early and dressed _before_ Mr. Sutter gets here."

"What about breakfast?"

"Mrs. Sutter will give us something to take along."

She holds one hand to Ed's temple to balance as she picks at a stubborn knot. Al, finished with his cocoa, curls against Miss Riza's side, ear pressed to her belly.

"Do you think the baby's excited to go on a train?"

"I doubt he's put much thought into it," Miss Riza laughs, as Winry comes trudging in, hair dripping, miserable. Ed shifts off to Miss Riza's other side and checks for himself—listening for the familiar heartbeat, just to be sure. Now that they know, it's important somehow to confirm every day. "He's been quiet today, though. He likes to keep me up at night. Don't wake him."

"We won't, _promise_," Al says, as Winry settles down and Miss Riza shakes the comb clean.

"You remember the conditions, don't you?"

"Yes, Miss Riza," they chorus.

"Stay in sight...?" she prompts.

"Stay together," Winry drones.

"And _listen_," Al finishes.

"Very good. And that's exactly what you're going to do, right? You wouldn't even _dream_ of giving me trouble while we're in the city."

"No, Miss Riza."

Winry's hair transforms beneath Miss Riza's deft fingers from a tangled soaking nest to a neat plait that rests square between her shoulder-blades. Finishing with a stout ribbon, Miss Riza taps Winry off her lap, and Winry crosses to the window, studying her shadowed reflection.

"Will there be time tomorrow to put it up like yours?"

"Of course," Miss Riza says, unraveling Ed and Al from her sides and standing. She stretches—the curve of her spine sharpening like a bow. Granny trumps down the steps with Den trotting along.

"Water should be fine once you get up there," she says to Miss Riza. "Mind you're careful on the stairs."

"There's a rail, isn't there?"

But still they all listen to her retreat until they've heard the echo of the bathroom door closing.

"Not a _spot_ of trouble for her," Granny says to them, hands fixed to her hips. "No running off—no _wandering_. Miss Riza's not back up to full strength yet, so you boys help her out in every way you can."

She's too serious for a sullen chorus—they nod in mute terror while she collects their empty cocoa mugs and then shoos them up to bed.

The coal brazier isn't big enough to heat the whole room, so they pile onto Al's bed in a mess of pillows and blankets, cuddled close the way they used to as babies. Good-nights are whispered through giggles, and then they lie awake in excited silence.

Specifics had been carefully avoided—Miss Riza needed time to _convalesce_, as Granny said, and there was school to occupy the days. They did their chores, and Granny went over to tend the shop a few days a week, and snow drifted up the hill, little by little.

There had been signs, of course—little hints piling up, like the purse of coins Miss Riza had them walk down to Mr. Sutter, the envelope he sent them back with, the tin of bootblack and rags Granny left by the back door, the mothballed re-emergence of what Ed always thought of as _church suits_, and the arrival by truck of Mr. Mueller with the week's coal, which for some reason necessitated a closed-door kitchen chat with Granny and Miss Riza. They fought over who would listen at the keyhole and were quickly discovered, scolded, and shooed outside.

By the time break was announced at school, the whole house seemed locked up in that silent frenzy of anticipation. Miss Riza was growing stronger—and bigger—day by day, and one evening Granny sent them up to the attic for a box of clothes that used to be Mom's. They came back down in motley—laughing at the big tenty dresses and odd-shaped trousers. Miss Riza was too shy to model but picked out a few warm pieces in soft colors.

And then, at long last, the day arrived, expected and unexpected and exalted and droll. Just yesterday, they were called inside from chores and sat at the table and told, in simple detachment and firm warning, that all their patience and good behavior had paid off: they were going on a trip to East City. Ed and Al and Winry, plus Miss Riza—Granny said she was too old and far too valuable to be jostled about on the train ride.

Two days and one night in a hotel—shopping and walking about and new sights and new people. Winry could hardly be contained at the table, and Al nearly bounced himself out of his seat. Ed sat quietly, but inside he, too, was boiling with excitement.

He is still now just as before, watching the brazier's faint light dance across the bedroom. Winry shifts on the pillow—already asleep. She curls up on Ed's left, and on his right, Al is snuffling into the blanket. Ed blinks up at the ceiling.

It's far more than tomorrow's trip that keeps him awake, that rolls him out from beneath the blankets and sends him padding across the room—they're _finally_ ready, and all that remains is to gather the ingredients to bring Mom back.

Al and Winry close around the now-empty space on the bed as Ed leans against the door, opening it slowly onto the dark hall. A strip of light is visible beneath the tub room door at the end of the hall—he inches past, in case Miss Riza might be listening, in his mind reciting the formula.

He takes the stairs slow—one step at a time, on the edges where the wood won't bow and creak and give him away. He can hear Granny's snores from the living room—an hour at least until she wakes herself up with the noise and tromps off to wherever it is that trolls sleep. Ed makes a face and scurries past the open door to the library.

They have plenty of water and carbon, of course. Ammonia, lime, and salt can be bought down at Mr. Bohn's store in town. Easy enough to obtain and keep hidden—Miss Riza is never over-careful in checking the bags or counting up the change when they come back from shopping.

Ed pulls the list from its hiding place between some old fairy tale books. He can just make out his own handwriting by moonlight, as he kneels beside the open window and squints at the creased paper.

But as for the rest? Phosphorus and saltpeter might prove the most difficult—they aren't even _listed_ in the ration book, except to warn of possible requisitioning should the war drag on. Mr. Bohn lacked the remainder as well: molybdenum, sulfur, cobalt, potassium. Too exotic for most local alchemists, and whatever would two little boys want with them anyway?

But Ed looked him straight in the eye and smiled.

"We just want to practice," he had said. A half-lie.

The pencil marks are smudged from his tracing—fading into the paper, and Ed carefully folds the list up again and tucks it away. It hadn't been easy, these last few weeks, finding the time to research between chores and Granny's lectures and Winry's questions.

Miss Riza was their best defense on that front, oddly enough. Every day, with little more than a nod, she bought them an hour or two's peace in the library—Winry had taken to Miss Riza in a big way, bringing her blankets and trailing around once Miss Riza was back on her feet. It was simple for Miss Riza to nudge Winry into the living room, and Granny would always follow, setting up with some knitting or simple metal piecework.

He doesn't know how much Miss Riza knows, and he's too scared to guess. Even the fleeting thought is enough to ice his excitement, and Ed tries hard to shake it loose.

She knows _nothing_. He's sure of it.

Granny is still snoring when he sneaks out of the library: only minutes have passed since he left the warm confines of Al's bed. Tiptoes, the edges of the staircase—he makes it to the door itself and freezes. The tub room door is ajar, and he can see the flicker of shadow moving inside.

Wisps of steam curl out around the corners, and Ed is holding his breath, wondering if she'll hear the click of the turning knob.

But Miss Riza is in her own world, facing away from him: humming quietly to herself, pulling a brush through her own hair now. It's gotten so long—he hadn't noticed, or she hadn't let it down so much lately. Not nearly as long as Winry's yet, but she braids it back just the same.

Ed watches the movement of her fingers, almost entranced, as they weave between and around, sawing back and forth, creating order of the tangled chaos. Her arms, bent upward over her head, pull free of loose sleeves, and the neck of her nightdress slips down past her shoulders.

There is something red on her skin, like blood but not. Flat, lacking the luster of liquid. A painting, maybe: the tails of two red serpents entwined—_braided_, even—and they seem to writhe and coil beneath a flask and flame. The trapezius, contracting and extending, shifting skin, articulating within the confines of solid bone.

All change, Ed thinks, is a sort of transmutation.

Two thoughts surface at the same moment: that tattoo is alchemical research, and this is something he was never meant to see.

He cracks the door enough to slip through and closes it slowly, leaning his forehead against the wood. And he stays there, listening, eyes closed, until Miss Riza's quiet hum has faded back downstairs.


End file.
